Bodyguard

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “I was attacked by a Doberman when I was five,” she told him. “A neighbor’s dog got loose. I saw it out in our yard, and I ran toward it—I wanted to pet it. Grandma Carp had a poodle named Mitzi and … But this was no lapdog. I must’ve startled it, because it went for me.”

  She closed her eyes, shutting out the nightmare image of bared teeth and those terrible dark eyes. She’d carry the memory of those awful eyes to her grave.

  “I don’t know how I got away,” she continued, her story coming out in a rush, now that she’d started to tell it. “I guess I must’ve been right next to the fence that separated my yard from my friend Janey’s. It was like the one in this yard, and I was small enough so that my feet fit in the chain links. I climbed up, but when I was at the top, the dog crashed into it and I fell. I fell into Janey’s yard, thank goodness, but I hurt my leg really badly. I couldn’t move. I remember just lying there with that dog barking and snarling at me. I knew it was just a matter of time until that dog found the hole in the fence I used as a shortcut to Janey’s. And I just lay there and waited to die.”

  Harry had stepped farther into the room, and now the light from the hallway fell across half of his face. His chin was dark with even more stubble than usual. His hair stood straight up in places, a thick lock falling down over his forehead.

  Alessandra managed a weak smile. “Of course, I didn’t die.”

  “But to go through that at five years old? You had to be traumatized. No wonder you have nightmares.”

  “I haven’t been able to get near a dog since. After it happened, I couldn’t even be in the same room with Mitzi. And she was about the size of your fist. Not exactly dangerous. My mother made my grandmother lock Mitzi in the bathroom whenever we came over.”

  Harry must’ve been sleeping with his gun very close at hand, because he wasn’t wearing a shoulder holster. He had on a pair of navy blue sweatpants and a white tankstyle undershirt that hugged his muscular chest. It made his shoulders look about a mile wide and his arms strong enough to carry nearly anything.

  Alessandra looked away, unable to keep herself from thinking about how strong and warm his arms had felt around her this afternoon. About how close she’d come to kissing him. It was crazy. She didn’t even like him. He was rude, crude—but quite possibly the only person out of all the multitudes of agents she’d dealt with these past few days who was completely straightforward with her.

  She trusted him.

  At least as much as she could trust anybody.

  Harry was so different from any other man she’d ever met. He seemed completely detached and removed, totally unaffected by her physical beauty—until she looked like complete hell. This afternoon, sitting out on the steps, she’d probably looked about as bad as she’d ever looked in her entire life, yet that was when he’d wanted to kiss her.

  And he would’ve kissed her, too, if the door hadn’t opened, interrupting them. None of it made sense.

  Alessandra pushed her hair back with hands that were still shaking, mopping her forehead with her sleeve. Her face was glistening, her hair and her pajamas were soaked with sweat. She knew she looked awful.

  She wondered if he wanted to kiss her now.

  “Sometimes the best way to get over a phobia like that is to get tough and climb back on the dog—so to speak,” he said. “Your mother probably would’ve done you more good to make you face Mitzi. Instead, every time you see a dog, you’re five years old again and completely defenseless.” He shifted his weight. “You know, there are ways to defend yourself against an attacking dog.”

  She gestured to the gun he was still carrying. “Having one of those would do the trick. But there’d be a lot of irate dog owners in the neighborhood if I started shooting every dog that came within a hundred feet of me.”

  He smiled and instantly looked ten years younger. “There are other ways to defend yourself against an attacking dog. The most powerful weapon is knowledge. If you can learn to identify a dog that might be dangerous, and if you can learn what to do if you come face to face with one of them … You know, George worked with dogs. I bet he’d be glad to talk to you about ’em in the morning.”

  He shifted his weight again, and Alessandra knew that any minute he was going to walk through that door and leave her alone up here in the dark.

  “Do you ever have nightmares?” she asked, wanting him to stay just a little bit longer.

  She realized instantly how ridiculous and inane her question was. His son had been killed, violently, terribly. She could hear an echo of Harry’s voice: “… sometimes the only way I can fall asleep at night is to stay awake for seventy-two hours …” Of course he had nightmares.

  But Harry didn’t berate her for her stupidity. He didn’t tell her to butt out and mind her own f—ing business, either. He just gazed at her, his smile long since faded.

  Finally he sighed, a quiet exhale that echoed the lines of fatigue he perpetually wore on his face. “You wanna sandwich?”

  Her stomach churned. “No, but I’d love some tea.”

  “Tea.” His smile briefly reappeared. “Well, lah-di-dah,” he said. “Let’s have some tea.”

  “Drowning,” Harry said, his mouth full of pastrami on Jewish rye. “God, this is good.” He held up his sandwich. “You sure you don’t want some of this?”

  Alessandra shook her head, her hands cupped around her mug of tea as if she were cold. With her hair up in a ponytail, wearing those oversize pajamas, she looked about fourteen. Clean of makeup, her face was pale, her skin smooth and unlined.

  “I was never a strong swimmer,” Harry continued. “I mean, I took lessons and I learned how to move my arms and legs, but I’m not exactly ready to swim across the English Channel. I have this dream where the street is flooding, and I’m on top of my car, and I know I’m going to have to swim for it. I go into the water, but the current’s too strong, or I trip or something, but anyway, I get knocked off my feet. And I wake up just as the water’s going over my head.” He took another bite of his sandwich. “Nightmares suck. And that’s what I dream about on a good night.”

  On a bad night, he’d dream about Kevin’s last few moments on earth. Sometimes he’d even dream he was Sonya, at the wheel of the car. He’d see that truck go into a skid, the way she must have. He’d know he and Kevin were both going to die, there was nothing he could do to stop it, to prevent his precious child’s death. He’d reach for Kevin, wanting at least to hold him close, but the boy was always just out of range, just beyond the tips of his fingers. Harry could never reach him. He was completely powerless.

  Personally, Harry preferred the smothering sensation of water going over his head.

  He took another bite of his sandwich, but the pastrami now tasted like shit mixed with ashes. He put it down, and Alessandra briefly glanced up from her tea to look at him.

  He would’ve bet big money that she knew exactly where his thoughts had gone. A few days ago, Harry wouldn’t have thought her capable, but now he knew otherwise. Alessandra Lamont was no dummy. She was far more perceptive and definitely more sensitive than he would have believed.

  He wasn’t surprised when she spoke. “Do you think Michael Trotta had something to do with your son’s death?”

  “Yes.”

  She glanced up again, and this time he was ready for her. He met her gaze, holding it. “There was no proof, though. Nothing we could bring to court. At the time, he was tightly connected to the boss I was investigating. The one who was trying to scare me off. It’s likely Trotta was in the room when the deal went down, when the gunmen were hired to fire those shots into Sonya’s car.” He pushed his sandwich away from him. “Your nice Michael Trotta, the real friendly guy whose Christmas parties you went to—he conspired to commit a crime that resulted in the death of my son.”

  Alessandra couldn’t look at him.

  “It was meant to be a warning,” he continued. “A few well-placed bullets in the windshield of Sonya’s car. No one was supposed
to get hurt—just shaken up enough so I’d back down with my investigation. But someone fucked up, one of the shots went wild and the truck driver got hit.

  “It happened on the highway, where everyone was driving much too fast. The trucker lost control of his semi and jackknifed. Sonya hit the brakes, but she and Kevin never even had a chance.” Funny, he could tell the story like a news reporter. He could relate the facts emotionlessly, as if they’d happened to someone else’s ex-wife, someone else’s son.

  Alessandra closed her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah,” Harry said. “I am, too. But Trotta’s not. Trotta probably doesn’t care.” He pushed the plate with his half-eaten sandwich away from him and glanced up to find her watching him. “He’s not going to go to jail for killing my kid,” he continued, watching her just as steadily. “But he is going to jail. Sooner or later, he’s going to screw up royally—and the FBI’s gonna be there. I’m gonna be there.”

  “But that won’t bring Kevin back.”

  Her quiet words stunned him, and he had to look away. No one, not even George, not even Marge, had ever dared to be so blunt. He knew they’d all been thinking it, but Alessandra was the first to come out and say it.

  He thought of his dreams of Kevin, with the kid always just beyond his reach. “I’m aware of that,” he said stiffly. “But sending Trotta to jail—or to hell, I’m not picky—is gonna go a long way toward making me feel better.”

  “Will it really?”

  Harry studied her face. In the harsh fluorescent kitchen light she looked exhausted, her eyes nearly bruised from fatigue. She wasn’t just playing devil’s advocate. She honestly wanted to know.

  She leaned forward slightly. “Did you feel better when what’s his name—Riposa—died resisting arrest?”

  “How the hell do you know Frank Riposa’s name?” Harry knew the answer to that question the moment it left his lips. “You’ve been talking to George about me.”

  It was Alessandra’s turn to look away, shrugging delicately. “There’s not much else to do around here besides talk. So, yes, I did ask him some questions—”

  “Out of the four hundred and sixty-eight trillion possible topics of discussion,” he mused, “I’m number one on the list. I’m flattered.”

  She took a sip of her tea, completely nonchalant—except for the slight pink tinge that colored her cheeks, and the fact that she refused to meet his gaze. “Don’t be. I was just trying to break this endless boredom.”

  She was lying. He knew it. And she knew that he knew it.

  She took another sip. “So did you feel better knowing Riposa was dead?”

  Harry stood up and put the mustard back in the refrigerator. “Yeah,” he said.

  They both knew he was lying, too.

  Alessandra opened the door and tripped over Harry.

  He was sitting in the hall, right outside her door, fast asleep.

  He woke up though, as her foot connected with his ribs and she hit the opposite wall with a very loud thump.

  He was beside her in an instant. “Are you all right?”

  His eyes were heavy lidded and sleepy, his hands warm through her pajamas. Alessandra knew his arms would be just as warm and wonderfully solid. It would be so easy to lean back against him, to let him take care of her.

  In every possible way.

  The awful truth was, she missed sex. Griffin may not have been the most reliable lover, but he had been imaginative—at least at the beginning of their marriage. Of course, all those years of trying to get pregnant had put a boatload of stress on their sexual relationship, taking all of the fun out of it. It had been years since Alessandra had had sex purely for the sake of sex.

  Harry was standing much too close, his hand on her shoulder. He’d gone very still, very quiet, as if he somehow knew the decadent direction her thoughts had traveled. She could feel his body heat, smell his warmth. Lord, he smelled so good.

  She cleared her throat but still her voice came out much too huskily. “Are you all right? I didn’t see you there. I didn’t mean to kick you.”

  He was looking at her, examining her, and he smiled crookedly. “You look good in the morning, Al.”

  Her hair was stringy, her eyes were tired and puffy, and she had on absolutely no makeup. “I look like hell.”

  “Whoa, that’s pretty harsh language for you.”

  “You look like hell, too.”

  “Hell is an improvement for me,” he told her. “In fact, I consider it a compliment. See, shit’s my usual look. On really bad days, I look like total shit. So, yeah, hell is a big step up for me.” His smile made his eyes crinkle. “So, thank you very much.”

  Alessandra couldn’t keep from smiling back.

  He stepped away from her then, his hand sliding intimately down her arm to her elbow before he moved out of reach.

  She felt cold without him touching her. But while cold was uncomfortable, it wasn’t half as bad as she would feel if she let herself become involved with this man simply because she wanted to feel warm and safe.

  There was no such thing as warm and safe, though, when the cold came from deep inside.

  She’d learned that the hard way.

  Harry had caught a glimpse of himself in the hall mirror and was futilely attempting to smooth down his hair. It was a losing battle. “Christ, would you look at me? I need a haircut.”

  “Were you guarding my door to keep dogs and villains out, or to keep me in?” she asked.

  He gave up on his hair and turned to gaze at her for a long moment before he answered. “A little of each.”

  Alessandra nodded. “I like that you’re honest with me.”

  “Yeah, well, I’d like for you to be honest with me, too.”

  “Even if I told you I still think there’s been some kind of mistake?”

  The muscles in the side of Harry’s jaw jumped as he stood there, just watching her.

  “I counted the money,” she said softly. “It was all there. I’m sorry, I know you believe Michael Trotta killed your son, but …”

  He nodded. “If you go back, Trotta will let his dog tear you apart.” His voice was gentle, contrasting the harshness of his words.

  Alessandra turned away.

  “You want honest,” he added softly. “That’s what I honestly believe, Allie.”

  “What if you’re wrong?” she asked tightly.

  “What if I’m right?”

  “I want to call him.”

  “Not from this house. Not from this town.”

  She spun to face him, ready to drop to her knees and beg him if she had to. “Then let’s take a ride. Please. We can drive over into Connecticut. I’ll call from … I don’t know, Hartford. From a pay phone.”

  Harry was silent again for a long time. Without his smile, the lines around his eyes made him look weary. But then he nodded. “I’ll do what I can to set it up. You’ve got to be patient, though. It might take a few days to get approval from my boss.”

  “I promise I won’t call from the phone in this house.”

  Harry nodded again. “Good.”

  She started toward the bathroom but then turned back. “Do you trust me?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Not enough to leave you alone in a room with a phone.”

  Alessandra nodded. “Thank you again for your honesty.”

  Harry smiled. There was more than amusement, there was a hint of approval lighting his eyes. “You’re welcome, I guess.”

  Shaun pretended he didn’t see Ricky Morgan and Josh French following him as he left the middle school.

  It was late, nearly four-thirty, and there were only a few other kids around, waiting for rides after rehearsal for the school talent show.

  Shaun unlocked his bicycle from the stand by the front doors and slipped both of his arms into the straps of his backpack, carefully keeping his back to Ricky and Josh.

  With any luck, he’d be on his bike and halfway down the drive before they approached him. With a
ny luck …

  “Yo, fairy boy, where you going so fast on your little silver wings?”

  Shit.

  Shaun didn’t lift his head. He refused to respond unless they called him by name. His real name.

  He staggered as Josh grabbed his backpack and spun him around. “Hey, we’re talking to you, leprechaun. Show a little respect for your elders.”

  Josh was only two months older than he was. Nine years ago, he’d just squeaked past the cut-off for entry into kindergarten a year earlier than Shaun.

  “Just leave me alone.” This was really stupid. Although they were ninth graders, he was bigger than both of them. But he hated violence. He wasn’t anything like his father, who entered into any altercation with a gleam in his eye, ready and willing to use fists and muscle to deal with whatever came his way.

  But then again, Harry only used his fists as a last resort.

  “In a hurry to go home and put on your auntie’s undies, faggot?”

  Shaun took off his backpack and set it down, balancing himself lightly on the balls of his feet, as if he were preparing for a strenuous jazz combination, drawing himself up to his full height. And then, as he looked down, way down into Ricky and Josh’s inbred, squinty little eyes, he gave them Harry’s best smile. “There’ve been studies done that prove most homophobes’ problems stem from fear of their own latent homosexual urges.”

  Josh blinked. “Huh?”

  Ricky was a little brighter. “I think he’s calling us queer.”

  “Queer and faggot are derogatory terms,” Shaun scolded them gently, just the way Harry would’ve. “You should love yourselves more. Be proud of who you are.”

  Ricky was already backing away in horror, but Josh wasn’t going to let that one go. Shaun made himself into a rock and didn’t sway more than an inch as the smaller boy shoved him. And when Josh reached for him again, Shaun caught his wrist. “Look, I know you feel this need to touch me, but the truth is, I’m not gay. I’m sorry—I know how much you gay guys go for dancers, but I met this girl out in California, and we’ve been keeping in touch and—”